


March (winds)

by hey_my_dear, if420fireflies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco also simps, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry simps, M/M, Marching Band, Post-Hogwarts, Sunglasses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hey_my_dear/pseuds/hey_my_dear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/if420fireflies/pseuds/if420fireflies
Summary: Harry just wants to figure out how to play a high C on the trumpet. If former Death Eaters with mysterious intentions are there too, insulting him, acting like miserable individuals, and also being unfairly attractive, what is he supposed to do about it?But if he has to buy sunglasses so he can stare at Draco Malfoy playing the flute without being noticed, so be it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	1. March 1st and 2nd

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to hey_my_dear for existing and also for somehow understanding Drarry better than I do, despite the fact that she doesn't read the ship. Hit her up if you wanna talk about Debbie from SING's hair for three hours.

It was all Hermione’s fault, when it came down to it, her fault for convincing him “a bit of fresh air would do him good” and “learning something new is just what he needed to get out of this funk.” Hermione’s fault that he had to spend hours with sodding Malfoy of all people.

When he’d asked Malfoy what in the name of Merlin he was doing, he’d just shrugged, _(shrugged!)_ and said, “Oh, I simply required a change of pace,” flapping his hand around like it was every day that former Death Eaters went around joining marching bands for Muggle charity. Then, Malfoy had glanced at the instrument case Harry was still mindlessly holding in his shocked confusion. 

“You play the trumpet? Rather an undignified instrument, I’ve always thought. It suits you perfectly.”

Harry clenched his teeth, trying to stop himself from removing Malfoy’s smirk with a brief although preferably forceful application of the aforementioned instrument.

“And I suppose you play some embodiment of elegance and class,” Harry suggests, successfully not hitting Malfoy, although not quite keeping his voice controlled.

Malfoy removes a shrunken rectangle from his jacket pocket, which expands into a case when he taps it twice. He opens it, snapping the clasps louder than necessary, Harry suspects, for some kind of dramatic effect, then lifts out a flute. Harry watches his fingers as he fits the pieces of the flute together with care, as if the silver of the instrument is something sacred, venerable. And yes, his flute is undeniably elegant, to Harry’s annoyance. Draco raises it to his mouth, resting his fingers against the keys. Then he turns to look right at Harry, extends his arm so that the end of his flute almost touches Harry’s ear, and with a practiced movement flips Harry’s glasses off his face.

Harry sputters in rage and gropes blindly for his wand. This was going to be a long month.

\--o0o--

The trouble was, Harry thought as he stared at the morning sunlight creeping across his bed, Malfoy hadn’t done anything wrong. Oh sure, as a frightened teenager he had done plenty. And yesterday he’d laughed at Harry for five full minutes while he tried to find his glasses, and then frantically Disapparated as soon as Harry could see again. And he was still a classist excuse of a human being. Probably still hated Muggles and was only in the band for- for god knows why. The exact sort of person Harry would always save a bit of his contempt for. But somehow, Harry couldn’t bring himself to dislike him. Or even to hate him.

His alarm went off. Harry dragged himself out of bed, ran a comb through his hair, and slouched his way through the dusty sunlit hallways of 12 Grimmauld Place. He still hadn’t figured out how to bypass the wards, so he had to use the porch whenever he wanted to Apparate. He turned on his heel, felt the familiar crunch, and came out on the steps outside the music room. Second rehearsal.

After two hours of trying to puzzle out sheet music, exhausted and discouraged, he came to the realization that music would never be his forte. He had also realized that being unable to hate Draco wasn’t the trouble at all. Instead of returning home, he took the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley and bought a pair of sunglasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic spawned from the following conversation:
> 
> "now i'm imagining drarry marching band aus and i know EXACTLY how it'd go  
> it starts off with either A) one of them being jealous of the other for either social status/skill depending on who's being jealous OR 😎 staring at them across the band  
> ...  
> i forgot B) autocorrects to emoji"  
>   
> "AHAHAHHAHA  
> I THOUGHT THEY WERE STARING WITH SUNGLASSES SO IT WOULDN'T BE AS OBVIOUS"
> 
> Again, kudos to hey_my_dear for being big brain. Thanks for reading!


	2. March 5th

The next day, Draco, along with everyone else, gawks at Harry.

"Harry," Hermione says, conducting baton still in hand, "why are you wearing sunglasses at an indoor rehearsal? Can you even see the music?" 

"It’s bright in here," Harry responds quickly, dragging himself out of some reverie. Typical of the idiot. But then again, respect isn’t really something the Savior needs to pay to other people, is it? And the worst of all, apparently Harry actually looks good in cheap plastic glasses.

But none of it changes the fact that Harry has fumbled the trumpet run every single bloody time they rehearse, and it sounds as though he hasn’t tuned the bloody thing in months, even though Draco watched Ron help him with the tuning slide an hour ago. And if Draco has nothing else to say about Ron, the Weasley is surprisingly proficient with the instruments.

After an hour of Harry becoming visibly flustered, Hermione decides to call it a day. 

“Please make sure to keep practicing your respective parts. We’ll begin outside next Monday.”

They haven’t made much progress, what with Harry’s shenanigans and a couple other players who also seem to be complete novices. Draco drifts away to a corner of the room as the other witches and wizards begin to pack up and chat. He kneels on the carpet to dissemble his flute. He’s just shut the clasps of the case, making satisfyingly loud clicks, when Potter looms up in front of him, still wearing the stupid glasses.

“Do you want something? Like sunglasses that don’t look like _that_ , perhaps?”

Harry’s mouth downturns for a second, but amazingly, he takes his glasses off and folds them into his pocket. Draco exhales with relief.

“You’re going to hate me for saying this but I just wanted to, er . . . mend fences . . . a bit?”

Draco stares at him for a second.

“You’re apologizing?”

“What? No! I’m saying that you don’t have to!”

“Don’t have to do _what?_ ”

“Apologize!”

“What would _I_ apologize for? You’re the one who can’t count eighth notes! There were only eighth notes! Your section only _plays_ eighth notes! How are you not capable of that?”

Harry stares back at him, evidently just as confused, even though _he_ was the one who started this conversation, and then rubs his face.

“No, you tosser, I mean about how you let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and almost killed us all, and how your family tortured Hermione in your sitting room and once again, almost killed us all!”

“Yes, well, listening to you playing has probably left half the band incapacitated if not dead.” Draco snaps back. He hates himself. He doesn’t even remember why anymore - was it the cowardice that left him with a skull-and-snake scarred into his arm for the rest of his life, or was it the cowardice that makes him insult Potter even as he offers a truce, or the knowledge that really, he’s never changed-

Harry clenches his fists and makes as though he’s about to storm off, but he turns back to Draco. His gaze settles.

“Am I really that bad?”

“No,” says Draco reflexively. After a moment, a word drags itself through Draco’s teeth.  
“Sorry.”

Harry looks at him for a long second, his eyes strangely blank, or strangely full, Draco can’t tell which, then turns away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments (?) are highly appreciated! Thank you for reading.


	3. March 8th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry does not thrive.

Draco whacks Harry across the face with his flute for the fifth time as they change positions. (“Oh dear, not again. So clumsy of me.”) He also finds time to whisper into Harry’s ear in the chaos of the transition, insulting Harry every chance he gets. (“The entire ensemble plays A sharp in bar 23, not A natural, _Potter._ ”) And worst of all: (“Still wearing prescription sunglasses, Potter? How charming.”)

When practice ends, he sighs with relief. Rather than hiding him, the sunglasses attract Draco’s attention, like blood to some kind of fashion-attuned shark. But Harry keeps wearing them anyways. Better to be bullied mercilessly for lack of style (and everything else Malfoy takes personal offence to) than to have Malfoy know why he wants to hide his eyes. 

Draco, now as much as ever, gets under his skin. When Harry had tried to suggest they act like adults and leave the past where it is, he’d become so unsettled by Malfoy’s gaze that he blanked out and blurted out whatever came to his mind. He could barely even remember what he’d said, but with his luck he’d probably managed to re-open the whole Death Eater issue. And Harry’s not as foolish as he was. He can afford to be honest with himself over the real reason why he chased Malfoy down every hallway in Hogwarts, and why today, he avoids Draco, and Draco’s unsettling habit of holding eye contact, like the plague. And if he’s _really_ honest with himself, there are other benefits to wearing sunglasses around Draco. Like now, as he stares at Draco unabashedly from behind them. Okay, admitting he’s making eyes at _Draco Malfoy_ may have been a little too honest. Merlin, he’s losing it. He shuts his eyes.

“Hey, Potter.”

Harry startles. To his horror, he opens his eyes to find silvery hair and pale eyes right in front of him. Fingers brush across Harry’s shoulder as Draco continues speaking, holding his flute in his other hand.

“I think you should stick around to practice for a bit. You’re just as bad as you were yesterday. I could give you a few pointers.”

Harry almost asphyxiates. Draco’s smirking at him. His hand is on Harry’s shoulder. Malfoy _knows._ The sunglasses weren’t much use after all.

Draco looks down at his hand, which still hovers over Harry’s collarbone. His mouth downturns suddenly and he jerks his arm away from Harry. Suddenly, he seems to revert to pureblood haughtiness. Every motion becomes precise, his robes unwrinkle, his posture is perfect. He looks worried. Ah. It was because of that article in The Prophet last month. _Harry Potter Caught on Camera at Gay Bar._ Of course, Malfoy wouldn’t want to be near someone who was inclined that way, savior of the wizarding world or not. What did Harry expect, really. He couldn’t even blame him when it was probably just the way Malfoy had been raised.

“Uh, sorry,” says Draco, and he Apparates away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate kudos and constructive criticism! And of course, you have my eternal gratitude for reading.


	4. March. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some class of 1998 Slytherins share a flat.

“I’m an idiot,” thinks Draco.

Everything would be easier if it weren’t for the stupid sunglasses. When Potter wore them, he could pretend he didn’t see the disdain in Harry’s eyes. He could pretend Potter didn’t hate him.

Draco stares at the dirty countertop of the flat kitchen. Dirty. It was Blaise’s turn to clean, but the bastard always managed to find excuses. At least the rest of them were trying. On the other hand, Blaise did pay most of the rent.

“Remember what we said, Draco?” a patronizing voice drawls out suddenly.

Draco startles and stares at Pansy. As always, she’s the picture of elegance - short hair swept away from her face, outfit carefully coordinated. She wore dark teal robes lined with stripes of cherry red, which really had no right to work as well as it did. However, her poised facade melted away the instant she smiled. Then, she just looked predatory, thought Draco amusedly, examining her grin.

“Only fifteen hours of moping per week. You’ve already been through seven, if I recall correctly.”

“It’s Sunday, Pansy. First day of the week.”

“Yes, but you moped in your sleep last night. I could feel it two rooms away. ‘Oh, woe is me, my horrible mistakes and missteps take corporeal form and pursue me through this mortal plane, I am haunted by perfection, by salvation’ and so on.”

“I swear to Merlin, Pansy, if that’s another disguised remark about Potter-”

“What’s that? I don’t recall mentioning Potter? I was merely pointing out that you have terrible sleep habits and woke me up several times while you were obsessing over all the things that have nothing to do with Potter.”

“Pansy, please. You have no right to complain about obsession. You literally stalked Blaise _and_ Ginny with _multiple_ pairs of Omnioculars in sixth year.”

“That-”

“And tried to convince Snape that Love Potions had erroneously been removed from the curriculum, presumably so that you-”

“Actually, no, taking Love Potions off really was a horrible mistake.”

“-could brew them and spike Ginny’s pumpkin juice.”

“In fact, I- What? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, Pansy, you were insane that year!”

“Me? Didn’t you take orders from _Umbridge_ in sixth year?”

Draco winces. 

“Well, yes I did- Wait. You were there too!”

“Oh. Oh, right. What was wrong with us?”

“If only I knew.”

“Oh my god, do you remember her room? The fluffy pink walls? The tassels? The rhinestones?”

“Pansy, please stop.”

“Oh, do you object to my use of Muggle expressions? I know it’s hard for people like you to come out of the shadows, but the rest of us are progressive.”

“Merlin’s sake, Pansy, shut up, nobody cares if you say ‘oh my god’ or not,”

“Ooh, are we making fun of Draco again?” Blaise said as he pops out of nowhere and grabs Draco’s shoulders from behind. Draco stops himself just in time from yelling in surprise.

“No.”

“Yes, we were!”

“Pansy, we actually weren’t.”

“We so were.”

“Keep that up and I’ll tell Blaise about the Omnioculars.”

Draco matches Pansy’s stare, second for second. Blaise watches them as they seemed to transmit information back and forth through the air between their foreheads. He waved a slow hand between them. Suddenly, both of them turn on him, as if they’d finally admitted stalemate and abruptly reached the same conclusion.

“It’s your bloody turn to clean,” snarls Draco, at the same time as Pansy drags her index finger through the dust on the countertop and presents it to Blaise, as if it’s a high honour to witness the state of their kitchen. Fortunately, just at that moment Blaise’s Tempus charm goes off.

“Oops, it’s that job interview I was talking about, see you later! I love you both!” Blaise says quickly, and makes his exit with a sweep of his dress robes.

He can feel Pansy and Draco glaring at his back as he Floos away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. March 12th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Savior of the Wizarding World takes personal offence to furniture.

Harry smiles at Hermione and Ron, then goes back to staring at the new glass-topped coffee table they had just bought. It looks so clean. Their entire house looks pristine, as if the future is going to be bright and wonderful, like it or not. Harry wishes he could move on just like that, get a job, start saving up pieces of metal, some steps in the middle, and finally die happy surrounded by offspring. Maybe get cremated, too, and have his wife cry as she spreads the ashes in strategically sentimental locations.

Harry shakes himself out of it. An admittedly bitter internal rant. But it’s just because of the coffee table. That’s all. That bloody coffee table. The thing inspires true vitriol in him, it just looks so disgustingly smug, what with its stubby little wooden legs and its _cleanness._ It’s so disgusting he can’t help but hate his whole life as well when he looks at it. But really, Harry’s fine. In fact, he’s already found a few careers he’s interested in, anyways. He’s only one year out of school and he killed a Dark Lord. And he’s _happy_ for Hermione and Ron. He returns to following their conversation.

“Do you think I should become a male escort?” Hermione says.

Ron scrunches up his face.

“No, I think trying to revive Voldemort would be more fun. We should try that next weekend.”

Harry blinks at them.

“Why not revive Voldemort _and_ become male escorts?” Harry asks.

“Brilliant, mate!”

“Ah, he’s back with us. Anyways, Harry, Ron and I were trying to figure out what to order.”

“I want sushi.”

“Ron, you’re obsessed. We aren’t getting sushi.”

“Actually, I also kind of want sushi.”

“Ha! ‘Mione, you’ve been outnumbered.”

Hermione growls.

“Fine! We can have sushi! Again! As long as there’s sashimi. And Ron, you’d better not eat all the ginger like last time.”

“No, last time, you forced me to ask them to _leave out_ the ginger so you wouldn’t be sad because you’re too slow to get any.”

Hermione smacks him with the phone, Ron makes some remark about domestic abuse, and they dissolve into bickering once again, without Harry.

Harry tries to avoid looking at the coffee table but it’s no use. And he’s happy for them, he really is, why wouldn’t he be happy for them, they’re his best friends? Harry looks up just as Ron abandons the argument and steals a kiss instead, chastely pecking Hermione’s cheek, and she glances back at him with such a look of fondness that Harry thinks he’ll explode. Clean and perfect. Harry resists the urge to kick at the coffee table.

The Floo in the living room chimes, signaling a call. 

“I’ll get it!” Harry ducks out of Hermione and Ron’s bright, airy, _clean_ kitchen gratefully.

It’s Ginny. Her head floats in the fireplace, fiery hair crackling, and she sends him an almost salacious look, the kind she only gives _Harry_ when she wants something very specific. 

“Ginny. Not again.”

“Why do you immediately assume I’m trying to get something from you?” she says, pressing a hand against her cheek and looking innocent. Harry knows better.

“Who are you after this time, Ginny.”

Their break-up had been mutually agreed upon. Ginny hated the 'blandness of a long-term relationship,' and Harry refused to tie her down like that, even though she’d said she would be perfectly happy being his beard. Besides, in the spirit of Gryffindorness, Harry would rather not hide his sexuality away like that.

“Mm.... Pansy Parkinson.”

“ But she’s a Slytherin!”

“Harry. I don’t give a shit about gender. You think I’d care about school houses? Also, Merlin, have you seen those cherry-and-turquoise robes she wears? It’s a _curse._ ”

“What robes- you know what, whatever. Still a Slytherin, Gin!”

“Oh, but that’s part of the allure, isn’t it?” she says, leaning further into the flames and batting her eyelashes at him.

“Ye- No! No it isn’t!”

“Hm. Here I was thinking you were over all that House loyalty stuff. You’re awfully defensive. You after any Slytherins yourself? That why?”

“ _No!_ ”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Anyways, I just need you to get Pansy’s Owl Address off of Malfoy. You’re in Hermione’s band thing together, aren’t you?”

“God, Ginny. No, I won’t. I’m not asking _Malfoy_ if he can hook you up with _Pansy Parkinson._ ”

“What? Why not?”

“For one thing, I’m like…” Harry does some mental calculations, “seventy percent sure he’s homophobic.”

Ginny laughs at him for at least a full minute, almost falling through the fireplace at one point.

“Harry!” she manages to get out, “Draco Malfoy! Homophobic!” and she starts laughing again. “There’s a Prophet article every other week about which influential wizard Draco’s been gallivanting around with! Harry! He’s _gay!_ ”

“...what?”

“Yes, Harry, open a newspaper! Oh. I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

“It’s fine, Ginny. I got over the stupid article a while ago.”

“They outed you to the entire Wizarding public, though. I still feel like there should have been consequences for that.”

“It’s fine, they’ll print whatever rubbish they want.”

“Oh, Harry.” Her voice drips with sympathy, and Harry genuinely cannot tell if it’s mocking or not. “Anyways, get me Pansy’s address, thank you so much! I love you! Bye!”

“For fuck’s sake, Ginny-”

She’s already hung up.

Harry walks to the desk and picks up this week’s issue of the Daily Prophet, which is currently being used to press flowers. He carefully shakes them out - bluebells, a flattened foxglove - and flips to the society pages.

“Has Draco Malfoy finally settled down with the Minister’s nephew?” the third headline reads.

Harry slams it shut, feeling at once slightly hopeful and bitterly disappointed.

He’s jealous of Ginny. It always seems to be so easy for her. Or maybe she’s just more unashamedly Gryffindor than he’ll ever be. But God, did she know how to get things from people. He briefly wonders if she would’ve done just as well in Slytherin. 

Hermione and Ron are still affectionately arguing, this time over whether or not the band needed to schedule more practices to be able to perform for the concert on April 2nd. Harry sighs, and walks back into their bright, airy kitchen. He’s happy as he can be, for them. It’s just a little hard sometimes.


End file.
